Something To Take The Taste Away
by DancingSock
Summary: After the fire that takes place in The Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen is sent some medicine for her scorned throat. Unfortunately, it's disgusting, and she begins searching for something to take the the taste away. Could a small bottle in the back of her pack be the answer? Please review.


**Authors Note: **Constructive criticism is encouraged, as long as it's not downright bashing my story. This is my first attempt at a fanfiction, so go easy on me. Hopefully, you'll enjoy.

My throat burns as I force back the semi warm brew. It has a slimy consistency and the way it clings to my already charred mouth doesn't really help. The salve that my sponsors have sent me has been perfect for my calf and hands, but I can hardly stuff it between my teeth. I guess Haymitch saw how much I've been suffering, because when you've got a scorched throat hunting's no fun. So, it had been a relief to see the small pot of...what? I don't know, but it resembles broth more than it did medicine, so I gave it a go and slurped it down. Now, I am regretting doing so. The unbearable throbbing in my throat has gone almost completely, but it has left the most repulsive taste in my mouth. It tasted somewhat like the rabbit carcass Gale and I came across outside the fence a few years back, and I begin to wonder what was actually in this mixture, before the sensible Katniss that so often is forced to take charge emerges in my head. I've swallowed the brew now- so there's no point in considering what might be in it.

By morning, I'm ransacking my backpack for anything to take the taste away. It sits, undying, in my mouth- poisoning any food that passes my lips and printing it with its signature foulness. The last strips of beef could not tease the rotting flavour from my mouth, and I'm reaching despair when I realise my hand is bumping over a lump in the bag. There's a...concealed pocket? My hands desperately rip at the fabric, but it only takes a few moments for me to give up and slash the seams open with my knife. A small tub of something slips out into the folds of the ripped material, and I fish it out with a desperate hand. The powder inside it is brown, and I tentatively yank off the lid and hold it to my nose. Cinnamon. My mothered used it before my father died, in special meals. It tastes of happiness, and joy. I cautiously place a dab on my tongue, and the taste of rotting carcass disappears in that area almost immediately. Without hesitation, I empty the whole of the tub into my mouth.

The relief is immediate- the taste of death being absorbed and replaced by that of happiness. Then, I become aware that my mouth has lost all moisture. Instead, a dry, choking feeling overcomes me. I try to swallow, but it's harder that you'd believe to do so without any saliva. The thick, dry ball of cinnamon settles everywhere- in the back of my throat, inbetween my teeth, on and under my tongue. I'm probably close to getting used to the sensation when a puff of it erupts from my mouth- showering me with stone dry cinnamon. After that initial outburst, I can't stop. "Ackkkkk!" I splutter, not pausing to think of the fact that other tributes must be able to hear me- and how much the Capitol must be laughing. Dryness is all there is- I'm choking. Even when I should have coughed myself empty, there's the cinnamon clinging to the back of my throat, the inside of my cheeks. I'm on the ground, involuntarily retching to get the stuff out.

It takes about five minutes to expel enough cinnamon from my mouth to make the sensation bearable. I take long swigs from my water bottle- wasting precious droplets- and then spit them out in an attempt to flush out the sly powder which has cost me...what, exactly? A lot of water, certainly, and I'm hours from the nearest source. And it must have blown my cover, what with the screeching, thrashing, retching and coughing. Still, it has done me no harm in one respect. The initial cloud of brown cinnamon that I had spewed was the final word in camouflage- covering any remaining florescent orange strips. Saying that, everything else is covered. Me, my clothing, my sleeping bag...nothing had been spared. Still, I guess the cinnamon has served it's purpose. There is no trace of rotting carcass in my mouth, even if the flavour that replaces it is a sensation not dissimilar to the feeling you get in your throat after vomiting. That's when I hear the shouts of the Career pack, and make for the trees.


End file.
